It's what she needs, the rough speed of fingers and the gravel in his voice, the command and demand in one, undeniable. The way he says for me, so that it becomes a gift she can give him, a hymn of praise. Her cry of relief when he pushes into and against her is muffled against his shoulder, as is the quick series of sobs that follow after, whispered but rising in pitch, yes yes yes. She clutches at him with hands and thighs and cunt, thrusting against his hand until she breaks and gasps open-mouthed at his neck, her scream of rapture silent, her body shuddering against him.

When it passes she sags, kisses his neck in blissed out lassitude. "Angel," she breathes.